


It Ain't Over Till the Fat Lady Sings

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 08:23:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2461403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Neal is kidnapped at the end of Season 5, Peter does the unthinkable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Ain't Over Till the Fat Lady Sings

**Author's Note:**

> “It ain't over till the fat lady sings” is a colloquialism. It means that one should not presume to know the outcome of an event which is still in progress. More specifically, the phrase is used when a situation is (or appears to be) nearing its conclusion.

 

     Peter knew what he had to do, but it wasn’t an easy thing to reconcile. Actually, it was probably one of the hardest tasks that he had ever imagined because it was so heartbreakingly cruel. On the front steps of his Brooklyn townhouse, he had just informed a cheerful and hopeful young man that Peter, with all of his supposedly powerful influence at the Bureau, could not make the anklet go away and secure Neal’s freedom.

     Peter had to share with Neal the same incredulous conclusion that he, himself, had reached. It was a brutal truth to learn that after a career that spanned years at the FBI, Peter was really powerless...... just another drone, just another cog in the machinery, with no real clout. He couldn’t broker Neal’s release from the Bureau even after all the former conman had done over the years to elevate the closure rate and the reputation of the White Collar division. It didn’t seem to matter that Neal had put in long, dedicated hours on cases, and, during the course of his tenure, occasionally put his life at risk during undercover Bureau stings. It just didn’t make a difference at all. All the strings that Peter thought he could pull simply unraveled.

     Peter’s anger simmered just barely beneath the surface, but he tried to suppress it because Neal needed careful handling at this precarious juncture. “Handling,” Peter snorted to himself, had become a word with a nefarious connotation. Just who was really doing the handling? Unknown, shadowy puppeteers high up on the food chain -- that’s who. Machiavellian manipulators without scruples called the tune that everybody in their sphere was forced to dance to or perish. Promises were made that were never meant to be kept. It seemed that Mozzie, in his paranoia, had been right all along. The government bureaucracy was an evil web of deceit and corruption.

     Peter tried, he really did, to remain calm in the face of Neal’s bitter disappointment. “Please don’t do anything stupid or crazy,” he had called after an agitated, angry departing figure. But all he saw was Neal's back as the conman marched resolutely away from him. The disillusioned FBI agent knew it was only a matter of time before Neal said to hell with it all and ran. Peter could only hope that he would hold off doing the inevitable for just a little while.

     Not surprisingly, it wasn’t very long before Peter was notified that Neal’s anklet had been cut and he was in the wind. This time Peter simply sat back and distanced himself from it all. He found that he no longer needed the challenge of mental chess games, of getting inside of Neal’s head to figure out his next move. He wouldn’t be doing that ever again. He was so done with all this. With that resolve, he simply refused to be drawn into the hunt and was content to watch as those agents under his supervision, as well as the US Marshals, mobilized to seek out their quarry. Of course, as Peter expected, they found themselves running in circles with no real leads. All they had to show for their effort was just a dismantled anklet in a gutter.

     Then the unforeseen happened. A shy, retired librarian, who had taken up bird watching as a hobby after years in dusty archives, came forward. He had been down near the river camcording some arcane species of finch when he found himself also filming an apparent abduction. Peter’s team watched in bewilderment as Neal approached a man sitting on a bench on the path. With lightning speed, this conversation was interrupted as two other men grabbed Neal from behind, pulled a hood over his head, and manhandled him into a van that sped hastily away. The assailants’ faces were obscured on the amateur movie by low-hanging tree foliage, and all attempts to trace the van were for naught. The license plate had intentionally been obscured, and the actual make and model of the vehicle were indeterminate.

     Now the manhunt had become a search and rescue. Above all, the Bureau definitely wanted their asset returned because he was valuable to them. Again, Peter took a backseat, choosing not to be actively involved. In his heart, he didn’t think that Neal would ever be found. He supposed that he could have offered his assistance to the Bureau in its efforts. He had resources. You don’t spend years as a lawman without making contacts in the underbelly of society that you could use -- stealthy figures who would do your bidding for a price and keep their mouths shut. It was the law of the jungle that the street had become, and Peter knew it well. He could also call in favors from colleagues who owed him from years past. They would be discrete to a fault. He had done it before when he had utilized sentinels to shadow Neal after the debacle surrounding Rebecca Lowe. Peter was never sure that she had acted alone. He had feared for his friend’s safety and had surreptitiously put protectors in play. Yes, Peter could have done all of this with a phone call, if he had been so inclined. What he did instead was the unthinkable. He accepted the position in Washington DC and simply walked away.

     Peter had to put miles between his past and his future. He wasn’t a man to delude himself. He was still a pawn, just re-located to different climes. That suited him for now. He could act ignorant of the undercurrents and simply play the game in DC, because right now he couldn’t look at his trusted team in New York and not feel like a fraud.

     Peter didn’t know anyone in Washington, so it would be a new beginning, one that was supervisory in nature. Now in his fifties, he was looking middle age squarely in the face. He didn’t need to be out in the field pulling all night stakeouts in claustrophobic vans. He didn’t need to be straining a hamstring chasing some perpetrator who would think nothing of putting a bullet in an FBI agent. He had a lot of years under his belt at the Bureau with a substantial pension at stake, so he would be a fool to wash his hands completely of the mockery that his job had become. He could endure. One day it would come to an end.

     Elizabeth was ecstatic with his decision. At least one of them was happy. Never having been in the DC metro area except to visit, both she and Peter thought that it would be wise to temporarily rent a small townhome at first until they got the lay of the land. It was near the National Gallery where El had started her new career, and not a far commute by the Metro to the FBI Building for Peter.

     Peter now had a title, a nice office with a view, lots of tedious paperwork and boring meetings, and a nine to five schedule. If anything, his new colleagues were affable, but most were politically motivated. Peter made it clear that he had no higher aspirations in that mine field. He juggled his priorities and learned to delegate those tasks that were particularly abhorrent to him. There was always somebody who wanted to hobnob with the higher-ups and took on those duties.

     It didn’t take long for Peter and El to decide that the frenetic pace of the city was not for them. Being pragmatic, they determined to keep renting the urban townhouse for their workweek, but began looking for a real home on the outskirts of DC for the weekends. They desired a place that had some privacy that they could call their own. Right now it would be a weekend refuge, but one day it would sustain them in their retirement. They had acquired quite a tidy sum when they sold their Brooklyn residence. El had also banked a small inheritance from an aunt who had passed away, and Peter had recently come into a windfall of sorts. So they did the math and determined that they had the means to look at homes in nearby Reston in Fairfax County, Virginia, a bedroom community not far from Washington.

     Parts of Fairfax County were very bucolic with horse farms encircled by miles of white fencing, lots of mature green trees and beautiful sunsets. Neighbors were few and far between. It was quite different from the asphalt grids in New York City with its vast canyons created by huge, looming skyscrapers. Peter and El declared it ideal and set about hiring a realtor. Eventually, they found a charming, unpretentious house situated back from the main road on a panhandle. They both decided that it would fit their needs perfectly. It had everything they desired including an open floor plan and a large designer kitchen. There were three bedrooms affording plenty of space if El’s parents chose to visit. Peter looked wistfully at one of the spare bedrooms that had a large expanse of east-facing windows. For just a second, Peter imagined this as an atelier, with an artistic Neal at his easel.

     The sale of the property went smoothly, and El and Peter were very fortunate to have a talented interior designer who worked tirelessly to transform the house into a warm and inviting haven. Seeming to somehow instinctively know their tastes, the decorator bathed the walls in a warm caramel color with vibrant splashes of red depicted in the Oriental rugs. There were numerous inspired paintings on the walls that seemed to draw one in. Creamy overstuffed furniture invited the occupant to sit back, put their feet up, and simply breathe. Just looking forward to Saturdays and Sundays made Peter’s workweek bearable.

     For the time being, the Burkes allowed a caretaker to stay on the property so that it wouldn’t be vacant most of the time, and he was only too happy to keep Satchmo with him since the dog relished running the wide open acres in lieu of walks along the concrete pavements of the city. The arrangement suited everyone.

     At the end of a long, gruelingly tedious workweek, Peter maneuvered his way out of the bustling city. It was Friday night and it seemed that everyone in the metropolitan area was departing at the same time, which made the Capital Beltway a virtual parking lot for most of the commute. But in the end, Peter knew it was all worth the trouble. Unfortunately, to her dismay, El had a function at the National Gallery tonight that she was obligated to attend, so she wouldn’t be joining Peter until tomorrow.

     It was near dusk when he finally reached the outskirts of Reston. Nearing his house, Peter could make out a welcoming glow emanating from inside the structure as he approached. He parked his BMW in the garage and entered through a breezeway. When he opened the door, he could hear the merry tap-dance of Satch’s toenails as he ran across the hardwood to greet Peter like a knight returning home from some faraway quest. Soft operatic music with a female soprano singing her aria could be heard in the background, as well as the crackle of a blaze in the fireplace. Peter then detected the alluring aroma of oregano and garlic. Slipping out of his overcoat and hanging it on a peg in the hall, he followed his nose to the big country kitchen.

     The tall, dark-haired figure standing at the island was in the midst of chopping raw vegetables for a salad when he looked up at Peter. A smile instantly transformed a handsome face that was predominated by mesmeric blue eyes the color of the summer sky. Peter smiled in return and eagerly stepped forward to fondly embrace this man whom he loved, this man whose abduction he had engineered in order to set him free. All it had taken was a hurried, desperate phone call to those hired guardians that he had kept in place, and, thanks to Mozzie and his bazaar little bird-watching friend, a furtive extraction from New York. The system that Peter had once believed in had let them both down. While Peter might not be able to change that system and make things right, he was determined that he would always make sure that he protected Neal and kept him safe any way that he could.         


End file.
